


The Mother of Invention

by very



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Ejaculate, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/very/pseuds/very
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shindou forgets to pack his hair gel and in a pinch turns to the Internet for advice, much to Touya's dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mother of Invention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hostilecrayon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostilecrayon/gifts).



> hostilecrayon's bunnies are rabid little monsters. Special thanks to aoigensou for the title, and to the ladies of the never-ending rewatch chat for their support, encouragement, and love.

Shindou is by no means a quiet person, so the clattering in the bathroom registers to Akira only as a vague annoyance until Shindou throws the door with such unnecessary drama that it hits the wall with a slam.

"Touya!" Shindou exclaims.

Akira looks up from the kifu he had been replaying with only partial attention to find Shindou wide-eyed and frenzied, tie a ridiculously asymmetrical mess.

Needling Shindou would be entertaining, but the exhibition game starts in an hour and if they don't leave the hotel room in the next twenty minutes then Akira knows that he's going to be the only one moved to any sort of shame or contrition by the lecture from the convention organizer and he's suffered enough this week on Shindou's behalf, thank you very much.

Higher road, he decides. He can always take it out on Shindou over the goban, and ten feet tall in front of an audience of hundreds sounds like precisely the balm for his ruffled feathers.

"Yes?" he inquires solicitously.

"I'm a mess," Shindou moans. "You have to help me."

"I can see that," Akira says, closing his laptop. "Would you like me to do your tie for you again?"

"That was one time! And my tie is totally fine! There's nothing wrong with my tie!" Shindou protests, clutching at the knot protectively. "Where's your bag?" he asks, the question a mere formality as he dives under the table to drag out Akira's suitcase.

"Don't touch other people's things without permission! What do you need in my bag, anyway?" Akira asks, shutting his laptop. "And what on earth did you do to the bathroom?" he asks as it catches his eye; strewn on the floor he can see various toiletries including toothpaste, deodorant, mouthwash, and about four different kinds of hair products.

"Stuff," Shindou says unhelpfully. "What the hell is wrong with your bag? The zipper is totally broken!" he says, tugging at the dangling pull-tab with a glare.

"Stop that," Akira says, kneeling down so he can swat at Shindou's hand. "It's a travel suitcase; the zipper locks. There's a release--"

"Aha!" Shindou interrupts triumphantly. "Got it!" He races the zipper around its track, and has the bag open and half of Akira's neatly-packed contents on the floor before the sheer audacity of Shindou's presumption wears off and Akira can process more than a wordless, ephemeral anger.

"Shindou!" Akira barks. "Stop acting like a crazy person, and kindly back away from my things!"

Shindou obeys neither point, whooping in triumph as he steals Akira's black toiletry bag and dumps it onto the pile he's made. "Floss, toothpaste, tweezers, moisturizer--wait, seriously, moisturizer?" he asks, tossing Akira an askance look.

Akira can feel the tips of his ears flushing. In anger, of course, in pure and righteous fury, and absolutely not in embarrassment. "It's winter! My hands get dry! Besides, some moisturizer would do your ankles some good."

"I do not have dry ankles!" Shindou says indignantly. "God, Touya, you are such a girl, which is lucky for me because I can't believe I didn't bring my gel. Where is your hair gel, by the way?" he asks, giving suspicious looks to Akira's sunblock and mouthwash.

Akira blinks. "Why on earth would I have hair gel?"

Shindou finally pauses his one-man whirlwind of destruction and pending property damage. "What? I mean, of course you would. It's for your hair, duh."

"Shindou," Akira says patiently. "My hair is just fine. It doesn't require any sort of styling assistance. This is why I have a barber."

Shindou gives him a squinting, evaluative look. "Hmm, okay, yeah, so maybe it's a little long for gel. You've got mousse in here, though, right?" he asks, shuffling through the pile.

"I have absolutely no need for any sort of extraneous nonsense," Akira says. "You could have just asked; then you wouldn't have had to destroy the hotel room."

Shindou is indignant. "I did ask!" he protests. "Like, twice. But come on, you have to have something. All I brought was my seaweed shampoo and lemongrass conditioner and colour serum and I don't even have my creme rinse and oh my God I'm totally going to get split ends with how hard this water is and I can't go out there looking like this; they're filming it for that DVD special and there is no way I'm going to let this get recorded for posterity. Seriously? You don't have anything?" He turns an expression of such mournful anguish towards Akira that Akira can only sigh.

"Shindou," Akira says. "You look fine. Come on; let's tidy up the room and get ready to head down."

Shindou moans. "You're so heartless," he complains. "There has to be something I can use--wait," Shindou says, bolting upright. "What if I tried combining toothpaste and hair serum? Then it would sort of be the right texture, right?"

Akira almost chokes on the mental image. "That's completely idiotic; how on earth would toothpaste contribute to any sort of hold?"

"No, no, no!" Shindou protests, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Because, see, there's sugar in the toothpaste, and sugar dries hard, right? And if it's a little crunchy I can comb it out a bit."

"That's ridiculous. And idiotic. And--put that down!" Akira snaps, snatching away the tube Shindou has just attempted to liberate. "If you're going to do something stupid, do it with your own things!"

"Fine!" Shindou declares. "Some help you are! Whatever; this is totally going to work," he says, stomping back to the bathroom. He doesn't close the door, and Akira can't help but watch the trainwreck in progress as Shindou does indeed squeeze a generous amount of toothpaste into his hand, then slowly pour in serum from the bottle he holds delicately between his index and middle fingers while he stirs intently with his pinky.

It's stupid. It's imbecilic. A child would know better. And yet there's something sort of endearing about Shindou's determination, and Akira finds himself almost hoping it's going to work.

Shindou rubs his ungodly mixture between his palms and then begins to liberally apply it to his hair. The first problem is evident almost immediately: Shindou gains blue streaks in addition to his gold. Shindou grumbles unintelligibly under his breath, rubbing the clumping strands between his fingers in an attempt to mitigate the complete and utter disaster he's creating.

Shindou's muttering steadily rises in volume until Akira can discern the words "sonuva sonuva sonuva sonuva" repeated over and over like a mantra. "Damn it!" he bursts, turning on the faucets full blast and dunking his head into the sink under the stream. "Okay, fine, so you were right," he admits gracelessly. "Got any ideas or are you just gonna criticize? Because you're totally not helping. --oh, damn it!" he swears, jerking backwards, yanking off his tie by the knot and unbuttoning his shirt with his other hand. "Damn it, damn it, damn it; I'm dripping everywhere and this is my only clean shirt--" He shrugs out of the shirt with breakneck speed, throwing the garment out of the bathroom where it flutters down to rest at Akira's feet.

Part of Akira wants to turn promptly away and pretend absolutely nothing is happening, but his body won't twist and his eyes won't close and instead he watches the winding paths of the rivulets of water that race down across Shindou's smooth chest and torso. "Ah," he says faintly, watching a drop catch on Shindou's nipple for agonizingly long seconds before finally dripping off.

Shindou reaches up to run his hands furiously through his dripping hair, the pose arching his back into an exquisite curve, his muscles shifting and flexing.

"Don't _even_ ," Shindou snaps, and for a horrifying instant Akira thinks he's been caught staring before Shindou continues. "I know you told me so. Got any useful ideas, genius, or are you just gonna mock me?"

Akira drags his gaze back to Shindou's face. "Why would I know anything about hair products?" he asks, managing to quash all but the tiniest waver to his voice.

"Can't you just, like, ask the Internet or something?" Shindou asks, waving vaguely towards the laptop.

Akira can feel his gaze threatening to drop, and he finally wrenches himself around in his chair and pours all of his attention upon his laptop before he can do something eminently regrettable. "Since you asked so nicely," he says, lifting the lid and waking the computer from sleep mode.

Shindou pads over behind him. "Ask it about hair gel," he insists.

Ah, and there's the familiar thread of irritation that he knows so well; it gives him something to clutch while he desperately tries to ignore the dark, warm feeling swirling in his belly. "I already said I would," he says.

"Okay, but hurry up, because--oh God, it starts in almost half an hour," Shindou moans. "Come on, ask it!"

Akira launches the browser and types 'homemade hair gel' into the search bar before pressing Enter. There are almost a quarter of a million hits, much to Akira's surprise; apparently people are very passionate about the subject.

"Click something!" Shindou pushes. "Come on, we're totally running out of time!"

"I'm doing it!" Akira insists peevishly. "Here's one," he says, following the first link. "Aloe vera jelly, Vitamin E--"

"Like anyone just has that sitting around!" Shindou complains. "There's got to be something better. Try something else."

He clicks the next link. "Unflavoured gelatin--"

"You know we don't have that!" Shindou says, and Akira really does have to wonder when exactly this became their problem and not Shindou's. "Something else, something else." Shindou grasps the back of Akira's chair with his hands and leans in, and the hovering would be annoying at any other time except Akira can't help but be preternaturally aware of just how naked Shindou is above the waist, of how warm his breath is against Akira's ear, of the winterfresh scent of his--

\--of his toothpaste. And the sight of Shindou furiously rubbing that horrible blue concoction into his hair is just too much; he bursts into laughter.

"Touya," Shindou growls, drawing out his name. "I swear to God, you can laugh all you want later, I promise. Just... help me?" he asks, voice softening. "Please?"

Akira sighs. "All right, Shindou. Relax. We'll find something," he assures him, and returns to the list of search results.

Next. "Flax seeds--so that's a no," Akira says, disqualifying it before Shindou has another chance to complain. "Linseed--no."

"We're not in a house. We don't have house things. Ask the Internet something else," Shindou pushes, bouncing on his toes.

"Fine," Akira says, and types in 'improvised hair gel' into the search bar. There are fewer than a hundred results, and without even having to click anything the first page only repeats the same advice about aloe vera and flax seeds.

Shindou lets out a frustrated sigh, but somehow manages to bite his tongue on any more complaints. "Anything on the next page, do you think?"

Akira clicks for the next page of results and has to swallow hard against the urge to gag; the word 'blood' shows up with unnerving frequency in this next set of results. He goes to click the next page when Shindou stops him with a "Wait, wait, wait! Blood? Really? Do you think that would work? Hey, do you have a knife?"

"Shindou! You are not bleeding all over your hair! Besides, don't you think someone would see it? And it looks like these aren't serious; they're all jokes about bludgeoning someone. It's not serious advice," he says, thanking whatever gods may be out there that Shindou is utterly inept with computers and has zero capacity to navigate the Internet without supervision.

"Gah! There's got to be something! Wait, what about that one? Click the one about 'my girlfriend's haircare secret'," Shindou says, poking the screen with his finger.

Akira bats his hand away. "I've told you a million times, don't touch the screen!"

"Fine! Just click it; we're running out time," he whines.

"I'm clicking!" Akira snaps, opening the new page, and it takes him less than five seconds to profoundly regret his decision.

"...Huh."

And Shindou has absolutely no reason to sound so thoughtful about this, because it is a terrible idea on every single level and no one in their right mind would ever consider such a thing, no matter what two hundred and ninety-four comments on the article might say.

"No," Akira says, and he's trying for firm but his voice is tight, and as he goes to click the browser window closed Shindou's hand is on his upon the mouse, dragging the cursor back to the article.

"Hey," Shindou says, and now he's pressed against the back of Akira's chair and his finger is sliding between both of his so that Shindou can scroll the page past the absolutely mortifying introduction and down to the 'recipes'. "Do you think this would really work?"

"Shindou," Akira begins, and he doesn't even care about how strangled his voice sounds because there is no one in the explored universe who could possibly process this logically because really.

"And look at that; there are other benefits, too. Oh man, I don't even know how much I spend on protein treatments," Shindou says.

"Shindou," Akira repeats. "Please tell me you are not seriously considering this."

"Huh," Shindou repeats. "It's kind of too bad I--well, whatever; it'll be fine. Okay," he says, releasing his hold on Akira's hand and straightening up with decisive speed. "I totally got this. Be back in a few," he says, whirling off and disappearing into the bathroom with another slam of the door.

Manfully resisting the urge to cringe, Akira scrolls up to the top of the article, hoping he's somehow completely misread the piece.

'Hair Care Secrets From The Ancient Egyptians: Ten Reasons Why Your Girlfriend Will Be Begging You To Come In Her Hair', the headline still reads.

Which means that right now Shindou is on the other side of door not twenty feet away, shirtless, with his hand on his cock, and Akira really can't be thinking of this right now because they have a game in less than forty minutes and oh God there is no way he will possibly be able to play Shindou in front of a convention crowd and the video cameras of Go Go Igo knowing that Shindou has come in his hair because the Internet told him to do it.

Akira shuts his laptop with more force than strictly necessary before he realizes that that stupid article is still up; frantically he reopens the lid, wiggling the wireless mouse in an effort to wake it up more quickly. He closes the offending webpage with a click probably more vicious than it needed to be, but the idea of someone logging on to his computer and finding that of all things is so horrific that he spends long moments wondering if he can get away with simply reformatting his harddisk as soon as he gets home or whether he'll have to throw the whole computer into a fire.

Then he hears the gasp.

Akira freezes, holding himself perfectly still. Nothing. It was nothing. Sure, the bathroom door is cheap, and there's about an inch gap between it and the floor, but there is absolutely no way he could be able to hear anything.

Seconds pass, and Akira only realizes he's been holding his breath when the tightness in his chest becomes almost unbearable. Then he hears it again, a soft hitched breath, and Akira can only bury his head in his arms. He shuts his eyes and attempts to focus instead on recreating in his brain the kifu he had been studying before Shindou completely derailed the entire morning. He lays out the first hands, but instead of Kobayashi and Takemiya's elegant, measured fencing, the stones shift and blur in mind until instead of Kobayashi's nirensei he can see Shindou's Shuusaku hane; instead of tasukigata, black plays Shindou's kannon biraki.

Shindou's faint, breathy exhalations begin to speed up just as black after white after black play in his mind's eye, the game twisting and winding as Shindou's hand inevitably overwrites Kobayashi's. Somewhere in chuuban Shindou's breathing turns to panting, and as black attempts to draw the battle in the upper right to a close Akira can see his own oshi tsubushi where Takemiya would have settled for tsukehiki. And now that he's started he can't stop: sashikomi instead of shimetsuki, ignoring the sobakou to instead play uchikomi, and just as the final battlegrounds are drawn, the stones on Akira's mental goban scatter as Shindou's panting stutters and finally stops.

Shindou's voice is scratchy, rendered hoarse by his previous exertions, but Akira has heard him too many thousands of times in uncountable variations not to recognize the shape of the syllables in Shindou's mouth as he breathes "Touya".

And the effort Akira has expended is for all for naught: his vision blurs in momentary dizziness as all his blood churns in his veins, keen-edged as an electric current, and he grasps himself through his trousers in a futile attempt to stave off his inevitable erection.

"Touya," Shindou repeats, voice clear and strong, and this can't be happening, absolutely cannot be happening; Akira gives his glans an ungentle squeeze and the discomfort is just sharp enough to cut through the intoxication of his impending arousal.

"Touya!" Shindou shouts, only this time he sounds more annoyed than anything else, "Please, please, please tell me you didn't ditch me--" and then the door to the bathroom opens and Shindou is standing in the doorway staring at him and thank God Akira's hand isn't still in his lap and then it hits him. Of course Shindou wasn't--of course Shindou didn't--it's not like Shindou would ever-- 

"Oh, thank _God_ ," Shindou says with a tone of fervent relief. "Come here for a sec," he says, leaning in and grabbing Akira by the arm so he can jerk him up out of his chair and drag him into the bathroom, and Akira's so far beyond confused that he can't bring himself to protest.

Something crunches under Akira's foot; "Ow! What was--" that, he means to ask, but as he looks down to see the mess still strewn about the floor his gaze drifts down to Shindou's bare torso. Standing this close he can see the slender line of hair trailing down from Shindou's navel down under his waistband, and the bulge in the front of Shindou's slacks, and Akira's staring but he can't help it, can't do anything but rake his gaze along the jutting curve of Shindou's erection.

"Okay, so, um," Shindou says, snapping Akira's attention back up to his face, which is flushed with a blush that travels from his cheeks down his throat and across his collarbone. "This totally never happens and it's only because I like only just got off in the shower twice this morning because oh my God you wouldn't take the hint last night and just leave for even fifteen minutes would have been fine so this is actually sort of like your fault so can you just do it for me instead?"

The ambiguity of Shindou's request doesn't extend so far that Akira can pretend he's asked of Akira anything other than the absolutely unthinkable, and all he can do for long seconds is stare blankly.

"Are you asking me to masturbate you?" Akira blurts before he can hear the shape of the words in his head, and as the horror at hearing what's come out of his mouth slowly saturates his brain his mortification is completed by the way Shindou's mouth drops open in utter shock.

"Um," Shindou croaks. "I'm kind of tapped right now but thanks, it's really awesome for you to offer. Actually I was thinking you could just come in my hair instead?"

And then Shindou just stands there looking expectantly at him as if he's simply asked to borrow one of Akira's ties, and once again Akira is forcibly reminded that nothing, absolutely nothing about Shindou has ever been normal. 

"You want me to come in your hair," Akira repeats faintly.

Shindou's face cracks into a brilliant grin highlighted with only the lightest hint of madness. "So you'll do it? Yes! Okay, come on, so we've got like--" and here he grabs Akira by the hand so he can lift Akira's watched wrist up to inspectable height "--oh, jeez, it's starting in like twenty minutes; how long do you think you'll take?" he asks, and Akira isn't exactly clear on how exactly they've gotten to the point where Shindou is holding his hand and asking Akira to come in his hair. Akira's fantasies may not have specifically included that detail in particular, but it's some sick caprice of the universe to have twisted them into this horrible parody just to torment him.

Akira wrenches his hand away. "Absolutely not! What is _wrong_ with you!" he demands.

"Everything!" Shindou wails, truer words never having been spoken before now. "My hair is everywhere and my dick isn't working and you won't even help me even though I'm begging you--"

"When exactly did you beg? Because all you've done is make one stupid decision after another and make absolutely abominable presumptions and you have got to be out of your tiny little mind if you think I'm going to help you execute this incredibly poor decision," Akira grates.

Shindou, of course, leaps upon the one thing that doesn't matter. "I can beg!" he insists. "Touya, please please please, you're the only one who can help me and you're like the one person in the whole universe who will take me seriously about this so if you would just please come in my hair then I would really appreciate it and and I would totally owe you big-time, so please?" His eyes are bright and earnest, and when he straightens his arms by his side and executes a perfect bow of contrition, the strands of his hair sliding down to cover his face, something breaks inside Akira's brain.

He grabs Shindou by the shoulders and shoves him towards the door. "Get out," he says roughly.

Shindou whirls around, and there is no way he's entitled to the crumpled look of betrayal that drains the vibrancy from his features. "Touya, don't--I mean, I didn't--please don't be mad?" he asks tentatively, biting his lower lip.

As much as he's determined not to give in any further than he's already sunk to appeasing Shindou's insanity he can't help but soften his tone. "Just get out and close the door; I'm not doing this with you watching."

Shindou's face bursts into sunshine. "Touya, you are so totally amazing and I have no idea what I'd do without you. Okay, so we've got like what, twenty minutes? And if you could give me like five minutes to do my hair, that would be doable. So if maybe you could be done in like ten minutes then we'll just barely be on time?" he calculates. "Is that good?"

Akira steps over and gives him another shove to get him over the threshold. "If you would kindly give me some privacy so I can get this over with, that would be much appreciated," he says, and closes the door before he can wait for Shindou's reply.

"Hey!" Shindou yelps in protest. "You'll tell me when you're getting close, right?"

"I'll tell you when I'm done," Akira tells him through the door before retreating to further the illusion of privacy. Not that it's going to help, knowing as he does how Shindou's going to hear every little sound that he makes. The idea of Shindou hearing him causes equal amounts of mortification and embarrassment to swirl briefly in the the pit of his stomach, but after the confusing morning his sex drive's endured ever since Shindou clicked on that goddamn link he's rapidly beginning to find that the potency of shame is inversely proportional to its duration.

Akira reaches down and cups himself through his trousers, giving himself a slow, deliberate stroke with his thumb. Even that small measure is a balm to the frustrations Shindou's been burying him in; he takes a moment to shut his eyes and draw in a long, measured breath that he exhales with the same steady care.

His peace doesn't last five seconds before the knob twists and clicks, Shindou's voice shouting "Wait!" through the door.

At this point Akira can't even bring himself to be surprised at Shindou's temerity when the door swings open again; all he feels is faint irritation, sharp edges long since worn down with familiarity. "Did I or did I not just tell you to wait outside?" Akira asks.

"But shouldn't I be here so that when you're ready you can, um, you know?" Shindou asks. "I mean, what if you get so caught up in the moment that you forget to catch it and it ends up in the floor? Because there's no way I'm going to wipe it up and put it in my hair afterwards; that's just gross."

Akira will never, ever be able to understand exactly how Shindou calculates his boundaries.

"Are you going to talk the whole time?" Akira asks instead. "Because then I highly doubt I have to worry about getting caught up in anything."

"No, I just--I mean, you know," Shindou says, trailing off as his gaze trails down to where Akira's still holding himself.

His saturation point has indeed been reached; Akira's composure remains as cool as the breeze across a lake in March, and when he gives himself a deliberate squeeze he is gratified that finally it is Shindou who gains the panicked, rabbity look in his eyes.

"Perhaps you'll settle for turning around," Akira suggests.

"Um, yeah, sure, okay," Shindou agrees readily, whirling around with haste.

Akira spends a few moments contemplating whether or not to unbuckle his belt so he can slide his pants down his hips and out of the way like any other time, but ultimately decides against it. Instead he skips straight to unzipping his fly, the sound of the unlatching teeth echoing off tile and porcelain.

Shindou makes a strangled cough.

It's about damn time Shindou suffered. "Shindou," Akira murmurs, sliding a hand inside his fly, reaching through the opening in the front of his briefs to draw out his cock. "This will be easier if you remain quiet."

Shindou's shoulders hitch. "Okay!" he squeaks. "I mean, um, nevermind; just forget I'm even here," he says weakly.

Akira has not-infrequently wondered if Shindou's purpose on this planet has been solely to torment him, and it is the rare moment indeed in which Akira can make him squirm over anything other than a particularly vicious hand.

"Doubtful," he replies dryly.

"Um," Shindou says, sucking in a sharp breath. "Sorry? But I, um, do totally appreciate this, just so you know."

"Noted." And he would very much like to find out what Shindou could possibly think he could do to pay Akira back for a favour of this nature; it's not as if Akira's going to have any emergencies in which he desperately needs Shindou to masturbate for him. But isn't that a thought; Akira's cock twitches in his hand at the idea of having Shindou spread out on the bed for him for Akira's personal amusement, and it takes only a few more strokes to bring himself to a full erection.

With the haze of arousal comes a sort of mental freedom; with Shindou facing the other way comes that of the physical. He draws his gaze along the curving line of Shindou's slim neck as he gives his cock a firm stroke; when Shindou doesn't shout or protest he turns his attentions to Shindou's beautiful scapulae, their sharp angles giving the impression of folded wings hidden just under Shindou's skin.

In all the hundreds of times he's thought of Shindou he'd never once thought he'd ever be here now with his dick in his hand and Shindou listening to him, waiting for him; his hand tightens and speeds up as he focuses on the line of Shindou's spine, as he wonders about the taste of Shindou's skin if Akira were to draw his tongue along it.

Now that he's started he can't possibly stop: he wants to bite the fleshy little lobes of his ears, wants to suck dark bruises on the column of his neck, wants to bury his fingers in his artfully mussed hair--and oh God, Shindou's hair, Shindou wants him to come in his hair; Akira's going to come in Shindou's goddamn hair--

Shindou shoves his hands into his pockets. "So, um," he begins, voice thick before he coughs and continues. "How's it going?"

And he realizes he's been panting openmouthed but he can't quite bring himself to care at this point; Shindou asked for this, and he is certainly welcome to take his leave if he so chooses. "Are you looking for a progress report?" Akira asks, his tone surprisingly even despite the rapid pace of his breathing.

"No!" Shindou exclaims. "I was just, um. Wondering. Because I'm not wearing a watch, and, you know. We could be late."

"Shindou," he murmurs, and it shouldn't be nearly so satisfying to be holding a conversation with him right now but he can't help it; he can touch with his eyes on Shindou's skin and taste him with the words in his mouth and Akira is going to enjoy every moment of this. "I'm well aware of the constraints we are under. This will be quick."

"Um, sure," Shindou says faintly. "Sounds good."

Akira rolls his tongue around in his mouth, working up a decent half-mouthful of saliva. He pauses only long enough to spit in his hand, and the warm slickness is so overwhelming it takes him a moment before he registers the jerking of Shindou's shoulders; he doesn't realize Shindou is turning until Shindou's staring at him with wide eyes.

"Did you just spit--oh my God you're huge," Shindou breaks off, gawking.

Akira's dick has never been so hard; he grips himself so tightly he can feel the tendons in his hand straining.

"Shindou," Akira says sharply. "Get on your knees."

"I--what?" Shindou attempts to say.

"I'm close. Get on your knees," Akira manages to growl, words clipped at his ability to form them rapidly disintegrates. Shindou's gaze meets his, and that wide-eyed look of shock is so goddamned disingenuous after all of his whining and wheedling and begging that Akira just can't handle it anymore.

A snarl escapes Akira's lips as he lunges forward, grabbing a handful of Shindou's hair with his free hand. "I said, get on your fucking knees!" Akira barks, yanking Shindou's head downwards, and while Shindou raises one of his hands to scrabble helplessly at Akira's fist he finally obeys, falling before Akira in perfect seiza, and the brief second-long fantasy it inspires of Shindou, shirtless, kneeling across the goban from him in an auditorium filled with hundreds of spectators, is enough to finally push him over the edge.

"Oh, fuck," Akira gasps, knees threatening to buckle but he holds himself up, holds himself strong. "Fuck, fuck, fuck; Shindou, I'm coming, I'm coming," he moans, jacking himself hard as his orgasm slams into him with ruthless intensity, and as his first shot of come splatters on Shindou's cheek it finally registers exactly what he's doing, he's oh my God he's coming on Shindou's face, his fucking face, and it's so wrong and it's so obscene and there's no possible way he can stop now; he shoves Shindou's head downwards and rubs his dick in his gorgeous amazing beautiful hair and just comes over and over and over again, shooting thick ropy jets of pearly ejaculate in Shindou's dark glossy strands and it's good, so good; he's going to come forever and almost very nearly does.

It takes him long moments to come back to himself; still panting, Akira finally lets go of his whiteknuckled grip on Shindou's hair and gives himself one final calming stroke before tucking his spent cock back neatly inside his underwear and zipping up his fly.

Shindou slumps backwards, sprawling back to land on his ass, propping himself up with his arms, his legs spread. His head is tilted back, and the bright incandescents of the bathroom only emphasize the come streaking across his hair and down his face, dripping down towards his mouth.

"T-Touya," Shindou stutters hoarsely, staring up at him with bewildered stupefaction, and Shindou's panting too, almost shaking with it, and even though Akira's utterly spent he can't help the shiver that curls his toes as he watches the tip of Shindou's perfect pink tongue dart out and lick his lip clean of Akira's come.

"I--I need, um, I need a couple minutes?" Shindou says shakily, voice rising up at the end and turning it into a question.

Akira takes one last moment to sear this image of Shindou into his brain. After this there is absolutely no reason for him to play coy, at least not until after they've pulled themselves back together and can begin pretending this never happened, and it is with a strange serenity that he lets himself linger, lets his gaze trail slowly from Shindou's come-spattered hair down across his smooth chest and torso, down between his spread legs where Shindou's erection strains unabated against the front of his slacks.

"Let me know when you're ready to go," Akira says, turning to go. He closes the door behind him, sits down at the table, and begins to count.

It is eight seconds before Shindou whimpers. But this time it's different, this time Shindou's not even trying to be quiet; his panting is openmouthed and frantic and in moments Shindou's already begun to chant "ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod".

It doesn't take long; in under a minute Shindou's begging "please, please, _please_ " and then lets out a low, keening sob.

Akira wakes the laptop with a flick of the mouse, and settles down to return to his review of Kobayashi and Takemiya with renewed focus.

There is less than ten minutes until the posted game start time when the bathroom door opens and Shindou shuffles out.

"Hmm," Akira says thoughtfully, giving him a considering glance. "So it did work." And he hasn't bothered to give Shindou's hairstyle much though before now but he can see how Shindou lifts his bangs and slicks his unbleached hair back for more definition between the two sections. It's definitely attractive, though honestly he probably would never have consciously noticed the difference.

"Uh," Shindou says, and when he bends forward to pick up his shirt off the ground and gives Akira a now-familiar view of the crown of his head, Akira knows that it's going to be a long time until the sight ceases to give him a sense of satisfaction and resolves anew to make today a win by resignation.

Shindou shrugs into his shirt, buttoning it and then tucking it down his pants. "Do you know where my tie is?" he asks, eyes darting everywhere but in Akira's direction.

Akira closes his laptop. "Here," he says, retrieving it from where it landed next to the door and untangling it. "Want me to knot it for you?"

For the first time since he left the bathroom Shindou's eyes meet his. Akira raises his eyebrow in silent inquiry. Shindou wets his lips briefly, then offers him a quirked smile. "Yeah, thanks," he says, turning around and flipping his collar up.

The last time he did this for Shindou he only did a half-Windsor, but after only a moment's contemplation he shamelessly decides on the full Windsor. He works in silence, using the time it takes to complete the looping knot to take stock of Shindou's mood. Shindou's breathing is slow and even, and Akira can't help the little spike of amusement it brings him to hear it hitch as Akira leans in and breathes against Shindou's ear. "I'm going to destroy you in chuuban," he murmurs.

Shindou tears away from him, whirling around to toss him a challenging glare. "As if! I'm going to slice you to pieces!" he declares.

"Easily spoken; more difficult to execute," Akira says. "Shall we go find out?"

Shindou grins. "You're on."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Least He'll Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/402939) by [hostilecrayon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostilecrayon/pseuds/hostilecrayon)




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